


The Augeretis Fons

by Relish_Redshoes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, F/M, Murder Mystery, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relish_Redshoes/pseuds/Relish_Redshoes
Summary: Six years after the Battle of Hogwarts, war veterans from both sides begin to die in increasingly violent and suspicious circumstances.Are they simply unrelated incidents, as The Ministry asserts, or is something more sinister afoot, as Hermione begins to suspect? When someone unexpected returns to Hermione's life, will they prove to be an ally in her investigation - or a stone cold killer?





	1. In Memoriam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. All familiar characters are created and owned by J.K. Rowling, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Harry Potter.
> 
> The stories I tell here about characters from the Harry Potter world are my invention and are not purported or believed to be part of J.K. Rowling's story canon. These stories are for entertainment only and are not part of the official storyline.
> 
> I am not profiting financially from the creation or publication of this story.
> 
> I am grateful to Ms Rowling for her wonderful stories and characters, for without her books, my story would not exist.

###   

### Prologue.

#### May 2nd 2004. Morning at St Mungo's.

Bertram Aubrey, the night orderly in Ward 49 at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, jolted awake with the realisation he had been asleep, dreaming about the delicious breakfast that awaited him at home when he finished up his shift. Wishing young Healer Pye would get a jolly wriggle on, Bert stretched the kinks in his lower back, rubbed his gritty eyes with balled-up fists and huffed an irritated sigh as he spotted Augustus Pye hurrying through the door shuffling great sheaves of parchment and nodding apologetically to the clock on the wall.

He noted with some unhappiness that the cuffs of his shirt were dingy and grey around his knobbly wrists as he grabbed the jangling bunch of old keys from their hook behind his desk. He tugged at his robes trying to hide the fact, wondering what he might have done to get so grubby.

As they did most mornings, the two men made their way first to the locked section of the ward where the patients who were a danger to themselves or others resided. Bert unlocked the door and let it swing open as he again tugged the ends of his too-short robe down over his grimy cuffs, looking up only at the sound of a startled oath from his companion.  
The woman's body hung heavily from the knotted sheet around her neck. The little of her face that was visible to Bert from beneath the dull curtain of dun-coloured hair was mottled and blue. The Mediwizard immediately drew his wand and began uttering diagnostic charms, but as Augustus seized her wrist to check for a pulse, Bert glanced at the dark mark on her forearm, starkly black against her pale flesh, and mourned the bacon butty his wife would have waiting. It was hard to care that there was one less Death Eater left in the world, especially today.

 

### Chapter 1. In Memoriam.

Hermione rose well before dawn and showered before slipping into sober, navy blue robes and shoes. She grimaced as she pinned the Order of Merlin to her robes, disliking the way the medal pulled the material askew, but it would not do to be without it today. Taking extra care with her hair, she coaxed it into a low chignon, and after a glance in the mirror showed her to be somewhat paler than usual she added a touch of lipstick.

She examined the mirror critically, knowing she looked older than her twenty-four years. The cause was nothing she could put her finger on. No silver hairs or spreading crows' feet belied her youth.

“It’s something about my eyes,” she thought. They looked weary to Hermione, even careworn.

She patted the wand at her waist, the wood worn shiny and smooth from nervous fingers constantly brushing across it, before she disapparated with a loud crack, rattling the diamond-paned windows of her cosy study.

 ****

The air was full of the sound of people apparating around her as she reappeared below the winged boars of the Hogwarts gate posts. The crowds coming to the commemoration of The Battle of Hogwarts grew larger every year, and she was momentarily overwhelmed. There was too much noise, too many people hastily shoving in the darkness, and the beginnings of an old panic tugged at the edges of her nerves as she stumbled on the uneven ground outside the school gates.

“Granger!” A familiar voice called her name. Its owner was invisible in the crowd, but a second later a hand on her elbow steadied her.

His black robes were simple, although beautifully tailored, and he kept the hood of his cloak up concealing his white-blond hair from the thronging crowd. Hermione suspected he was afraid there would be a scene if he were recognised, although he would never admit to such an idea.

“Thanks,” she murmured as he guided her to the edge of the crowd and toward the roped-off seats in front of the stage set up on one of the lakeside lawns.  
Hermione's name was visible in shimmering gold ink on a purple place card in the front row. They were almost to it when she spotted several familiar figures exchanging embraces.

“This is where I'll leave you,” he said, dropping her arm and stepping away. She caught the sleeve of his robe, and he paused without looking back at her.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said again. He hesitated another second before giving her a curt nod and moving into the crowds jostling for a seat.

****

Kingsley spoke eloquently, she thought, though with passion tempered by politics. However, as always, it was Harry the crowd came to see. He delivered his speech this year with his newborn son in his arms.

“We would do well today to remember not only those who fought and those who fell. We would be better served to remember that when we stand as one, tyrants who seek to divide us, into whatever measure, will always fail,” he said.

As the sun was breaking across the horizon, the baby stirred, so it was looking at the waking child in his arms that Harry concluded his speech.

“My hope for the future, now more than ever, is that we stop looking at what separates us and look to whatever brings us closer together.”

Hermione was now deftly dandling baby James and listening with half an ear as Ginny allowed herself to be subject to the happy clucking of Professors McGonagall, Sinistra and Sprout. She acknowledged to herself the pang she felt as she watched Ron and Bill chase a happily squealing Teddy and Victoire across the lawn.

“Second thoughts?” asked George, who had come up beside her unnoticed.

“Not really,” she answered truthfully, “It's just sometimes I can see how it all might have gone, and I miss the idea of it, even if we couldn’t have made it work, you know what I mean?”

George reached out to take James from her.

“Couldn’t? Really?” Hermione bit her lip, her gaze shuttered as she pondered the best way to answer the question. It was a fair one, she supposed, at least looking in from outside. She and Ron had five good, largely happy years, why hadn’t they been able to get past their issues?

“He didn’t ask me to marry him,” Hermione said. George’s eyebrows leapt so high they disappeared into his fringe.

“You wanted him to propose?” he asked

“I knew he planned to on Christmas, but no, I didn’t want to get married, or to suddenly face the expectation that any minute I’ll be having children. I told Ginny so at the baby shower and either she or Harry must have said something” her voice trailed off. George looked nonplussed as he patted the baby over his shoulder.

“See, when he didn’t propose I suddenly realised how much Ron was willing to change, to give up for me and how unfair I was being because I might not ever want the things he does” she spread her hands and shook her head helplessly. “There are so many things I want George, and when I accepted that being ‘Mrs Weasley’ wasn’t one of them I had to let him go find someone else who could adore him back” George nodded gently and pulled her into a one-armed hug.

When he released her she looked more closely at her friend; the circles beneath his eyes were so deep that they looked painful, and his hands trembled slightly as he settled the baby in his arms. She looked away over the rapidly thinning crowd as she drew a long breath, trying to loosen the sudden vice around her chest. A flicker of movement among the trees beside the path caught her eye and she spied Draco making his way toward the castle. His shoulders slumped, he trudged toward the castle on some pilgrimage of his own design. This was always a hard day, no matter which side you had been on in the end.

“How are you doing, George?” she asked gently as he busied himself with his newest nephew.

“Good grief! Is that Dennis with Harry and Neville?” George said, glancing over her shoulder. Hermione sighed but accepted the change of subject and, looking over, saw a tall young man she didn’t recognise deep in discussion with her friends and shrugged.

“The last I had heard Dennis was in London looking after his parents. Shall we join them and find out?” she asked. George shook his head and wrinkled his nose with a show of melodramatic disgust.

“No, I think this smelly young man needs to go back to his mother, and you should join Angelina and I for a quick drink at The Three Broomsticks before we head to The Burrow for all the birthday celebrations, what do you reckon?”

“That sounds like a good idea, George” she replied, smiling and offering a quick wave to the heavily pregnant Angelina who was now the subject of the cackling from the delighted Professors.

 ****

 "You outdid yourself this time, Molly," Hermione said as she hefted the last of the dishes into the already overflowing sink. "I may not eat for a week."

"Nonsense, dear," said Mrs Weasley as she put the final flourish of icing on the towering cake resting on the kitchen table.

Mrs Weasley paused and scrutinised Hermione so closely the younger woman blushed to the roots of her hair.

"Are you taking care of yourself? We don't see so much of you these days, and you work so hard. Every time I see you in The Prophet you look like you're spread too thin." Hermione smiled; she didn't mind admitting that occasionally it was nice to be coddled and Molly Weasley could always be trusted to mother everyone.

"I'm alright, Molly" was all she said, however. Sensing that was an end to the subject, Mrs Weasley sniffed but allowed the matter to drop. She had learned over the last half-decade that Hermione would not be coerced into a conversation she did not wish to have.

"I shall cut you a large piece, dear," Molly said as she levitated the dessert toward the sounds of the party outside.

Hermione dried her hands on the dish towel with a wry smile and followed a moment later, bumping into George standing at the foot of the stairs, a peculiar look on his face as he stared into space.

"Are you alright, George? Did Angelina head off ok? I’m not surprised she needed an early night," she said, touching his elbow and causing him to jump

"Hmm, what? Sorry?"

"Is everything ok?" Hermione repeated, but he shook his head, still looking somewhat dazed.

"It’s nothing. I mean, ow." He rubbed his temples. "I have a headache. Think I'll skip cake. Maybe later, when it's quiet." With that, he turned and vanished upstairs toward the room he had once shared with Fred.

The volume of the hubbub swelled as the collected Weasley family and friends began a rousing if rather tuneless, rendition of “Happy Birthday” and Hermione emerged into the yard at Ron’s elbow in time to see Victoire blow out the candles. As the clapping and cheering faded and everyone got down to the job of demolishing their allotted slice of cake, Harry plopped down beside them in a garden chair.

"Ginny's putting Jamie down," he said as he took a large bite of chocolate cake. "Was that Malfoy I saw you with this morning at the Service?"  
Hermione nodded, dreading the inevitable follow up.

"What did he want?" asked Ron, as he too folded his lanky frame into one of the low chairs. She shrugged, unwilling to revisit previous conversations about her cordial acquaintance with Draco Malfoy.

"Nothing. I stumbled in the crowd and he helped me to my seat is all," Hermione said, ignoring the inelegant snort from Ron. Harry looked up from his dessert.

"I know you two had to bury the hatchet when you both went back to do your N.E.W.T.s, but I trust him about as far as I could throw him," he said and Ron nodded in agreement. Hermione absently rubbed a smear of icing off his cheek, sighing. "In fact, I only ask because I saw him after the service skulking about in the grounds and then heading into the castle. I wondered if you had any idea what he was up to?" Harry asked.

"No idea," she murmured, putting the plate holding her uneaten piece of cake down on the arm of her chair. "But I saw him speaking to Professor McGonagall at one point; perhaps she knows?"

Ginny emerged from the house into the darkening evening and came to sit in Harry's lap.

"Jamie's down," she sighed contentedly. 'Have you pigs left me any cake at all?" she said, digging an elbow into Ron's ribs. He grinned in reply. Hermione passed over her own plate and let the conversation flow around her.

 ****

"Is that right, Hermione?" someone asked.

"Sorry?" she said, coming out of her reverie. Ginny and Harry looked at her expectantly.

"Harry and Gin were wondering if you were staying as it's so late, but I said I expected you'd want to go home. That you were bound to have a breakfast meeting with the Goblins' Delegation or something first thing," said Ron.

"Centaurs at Breakfast," Hermione replied with a sigh. "Not that I seem to be making progress with them. At least with the Goblin delegates, the rules of negotiation are concrete, but the Centaurs are a different kettle of fish; they look at the world so differently." Her voice trailed away and Ginny laughed merrily at her.

"Maybe you should ask Luna to come and talk with them for you," she suggested.

"Or Professor Trelawney," said Harry.

“And there’s always Umbridge,” said Ron, as the group descended into gales of laughter.


	2. Old haunts, new spectres

****  


 

Hermione trained her eyes on the golden thread which darted through the intricate embroidery adorning the robes of The Minister for Muggle Relations.  

“Surely, Miss Granger, you understand you’re a Muggleborn witch, not a Muggle. By virtue of the magical ability you possess you are different from them and cannot truly understand what it means to be _just_ a Muggle. Oh, by all means, dear, let’s do be sympathetic, but I simply cannot condone your latest proposal - integration of that sort poses an unconscionable risk to the Statute of Secrecy, and quite frankly I am surprised a girl of your reputed intelligence is unable to grasp that fact.”

“I am sorry you feel that way, Minister, but-” she was cut off as he rapped his knuckles sharply upon her desk, his saggy jowls quivering with the force of his movement.

“But nothing! I have been part of this Ministry for fifty years, and no young upstart is going to come in and tell me how to administer my department. I don’t care who you are. Damn fool idea of Kingsley’s, ‘Cultural Liaison’ indeed. I will fight you on this Miss Granger, and I will win. The Ministry has never been a place fond of a new broom.” With that, he swept from the room, slamming the door behind him and making Hermione wince.

Even in her early days at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Odo Burke, Minister for Muggle Relations, had been a thorn in her side. He had been the chief instigator in the long delay to her secondment as Cultural Liaison to the Minister for Magic. No doubt he feared she would have Kingsley’s ear and had thus far successfully thwarted every attempt to promote better integration with the Muggle community. He argued that Muggles were too helpless and fragile for such integration _and_ alternatively that they would be a dangerous menace to Wizarding kind were such an endeavour attempted.

“Hateful old fossil,” she muttered as she irritably flicked her wand toward the filing cabinet causing the drawers to spring open and several files to fly hastily toward her blotter. Hermione rubbed her forehead, smoothing the deep furrow that seemed to permanently mark the space between her brows these days.

She had not had so much trouble seeking to negotiate with other magical species regarding increased integration and recognition. Though she supposed that was because there was no Minister at all responsible for the _wellbeing_ of House Elves. The Minister for Magical Creatures was of a kindly bent and passionate about his charges, and thus was only too thrilled to see the likes of Centaurs receive greater rights and protections. Surprisingly the Minister for Magical Finance (who was indirectly responsible for official interactions with the Goblins) had likewise stood aside and let Hermione attempt to negotiate, though she strongly suspected a timely “donation” by the Goblin’s delegation had swayed his opinion on that front.

“No matter,” she thought, waving a hand vaguely in the air as if to dismiss the mean-spirited miasma left in Odo’s wake. Improving relations with other magical species and promoting a better understanding of them and of Muggles was paramount in being able to assist Kingsley in his mission to address the divides within the Wizarding community and help them heal.

Hermione had had faith that Kingsley was the right man for the job. His record of service during the War, his impeccable pureblood status and his positive relationship with his Muggle counterpart meant that virtually all factions found him acceptable as a candidate. But now six years on with little real change to show for their efforts she was becoming frustrated with the endless horse-trading and political manoeuvring. Kingsley had become a consummate and effective politician, but lately, she found her patience with his plan for “incremental change” was wearing thin.  “Continental drift moves faster,” she sighed to herself as she picked up a quill and started in on her work.

****

It was some hours later when Hermione placed her quill back in the inkpot and rubbed the aching indentation in her middle finger. The passage of the morning was further evidenced by the alarming number of new memos flapping gently about her office ceiling. There were several she suspected had come from The Minister for Muggle relations which were on blood red paper and seemed to be diving bombing the other messages aggressively.  No doubt his next salvo regarding her proposed initiatives. Hermione felt her brows draw together in a ferocious scowl and her fingers itched to incinerate the offending memos. Instead, she stood and slapped at the flock of planes flapping about her head as she made her way to the office door before escaping into the corridor beyond.

"Must be lunchtime?" she thought with a glance around the almost empty department and decided to pop up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and see what sort of day the boys were having.

****

The office the boys shared was one of the smaller ones on the floor, and it may have been in the far back corner, but still, it represented the recent advance of her friends to Senior Auror Third Class. It was a promotion that saw Harry and Ron involved in more complex and interesting cases than the Junior Aurors ever got to tackle, and both of them were proud as peacocks in their new maroon robes with the gold piping on the wrists to denote their higher rank. Hermione paused at the desk by the lift where a pleasant apple-cheeked witch sat to monitor any urgent floo calls and Dispatch law enforcement.

"Hello Mable. Are Ron and Harry about?" she asked. Mable smiled widely around the custard pastry she was eating and waved Hermione through.

As expected both the boys were at their desks with the remains of their lunches strewn in front of them.  Ron grabbed a chair from the empty desk in the office, one left vacant by the resignation of Neville, who had recently married and decided to pursue a career in herbology, pulling it up beside himself for her.

"How did your meeting with Burke go?" Harry asked as Hermione shook her head at the overstuffed ham and salad sandwich Ron held out to her.

"About as well as they ever do. How that man ever became Minister for Muggle Relations, I'll never know! He doesn't even like muggles!" she replied picking distractedly at a loose thread in her hem.

"Course he doesn't, H," said Ron, waving his wand at his rubbish causing it and several other objects on his desk to flop limply into the wastepaper bin. Hermione watched with endeared frustration as he fished about in the bin for his inkpot. “He joined the Ministry for the power and prestige. Old Caractacus was wily enough to see that putting in someone like his son would appeal to other purebloods and surely they knew Odo would serve their agenda. His popularity with those who have money and influence is what has kept him in office all these years no matter who the Minister for Magic was. That’s what Mum says, anyway.” His voice trailed away as he pulled his head out from the bin, inkpot and picture frame in hand. He placed the family portrait lovingly back on his desktop careful to remove the fragments of orange peel from atop a frowning Molly Weasley.

A frantic rapping on the door was followed a second later by a flustered Mable bursting into the office. Her usually rosy cheeks had lost their colour, and she hiccoughed and gulped in an effort to hold back tears as she tried to speak.

"I'm sorry Ron, Harry." The younger witch dissolved into tears prompting Ron to stand and hug her awkwardly while Harry patted her shoulder.

"What is it, Mable? What's happened?" Harry asked in a gentle tone. Mable took a shuddering breath and seemed to compose herself before answering.

"The patrolman from Hogsmeade just firecalled. Filius F-Flitwick has been k-killed," she stuttered losing the fight to hold back her tears. Harry's hand paused it's patting, and Ron stepped away from her. Hermione watched the colour drain from his face leaving him with a pallor like sour milk; the freckles stark across his nose and cheeks.

"Killed?" asked Hermione softly. "Was it an accident?" she added, fearful that she already knew the answer.

"No," said Mable pulling herself together with a final sniff and swiping her sleeve across her damp cheeks. "He was hit in the chest with a particularly nasty severing charm. Someone murdered the Professor."  Ron reached out for Hermione's hand making her realise she had been clutching the edge of the desk, her knuckles white and bloodless. She held her other hand out to Harry who took it wordlessly. A moment later he gently squeezed her hand.

"I think perhaps Ron and I should go and speak with Kingsley, see who is being assigned to investigate." Hermione nodded.

"Yes, yes and I should be back at my desk by now too. Please keep me in the loop if you can." She pecked each man on the cheek and squeezed Mable's shoulder as she headed back toward the lift.

****

Hagrid glanced over his shoulder to the bar at The Hogs Head where Aberforth had placed a large, especially nice photograph of a young Professor Flitwick in his teaching robes, which smiled and nodded at all those attending the wake.  

"Good man, Filius was. A good, kind man what didn't deserve to go dying in a ditch." His lip trembled, and his hands weighed heavily on Hermione's shoulders as Hagrid glanced about the room until his gaze lit on Harry, who at present was sat with all those members of the D.A and their spouses who had been able to attend.  "You, and Harry n' Ron, you catch the man what killed Filius. You catch him and send him to New Azkaban where he belongs."

"I promise we will do our best, Hagrid,"  Hermione said as she was enveloped in one of Hagrid's trademark bear hugs.

"If there's anyone that can catch him it'll be you three" his voice rumbled through the expanse of flannel beneath her ear. She patted his broad, barrel chest comfortingly but he continued to sob, great fat tears rolling down his cheeks and vanishing into his whiskers until Minerva placed a hand on his elbow.  

"Hagrid, would you be so kind as to walk me back to the castle, today has been most taxing."

"Right you are, Professor," said Hagrid, straightening up and blowing his nose with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. He patted Hermione once more on the back, which almost sent her sprawling over their table, and offered his arm to Minerva. The three of them made their way outside with Hermione pausing just beyond the threshold to wave farewell as the unlikely pair wended their way back toward the distant castle. As she turned to re-enter the smoky pub a low whistle caught her attention. She felt her eyebrows rise as she spied George sitting alone to the left of the door where the shadows were the deepest. In fact, she probably would have overlooked him altogether had he not made his presence known.

“Hello George, I hadn’t seen you duck out. Are you okay?”

George nodded and patted the bench beside him. Hermione took a seat and was assailed by the scent of good Firewhiskey. He gestured toward the pub behind them.

“If they had told the whole truth in The Prophet do you think more people would have come, or less?”

Hermione, taken aback, blinked owlishly, though she wasn’t really surprised that either Harry or Ron had told George about the heated debate that had raged all week at the Ministry.

“I don’t know George; it’s hard to say. It was the Minister’s call to play it down in the press. I’m not sure if I disagree with that particular stance or not. Kingsley didn’t want to incite fear in the community about a return to the dark days or even trigger misguided tit for tat attacks. But...” she trailed off, thinking better of what she had been going to say.

“But you disagree with his decision to leave the investigation with the Hogsmeade Patrolmen instead of having Aurors investigate.” Hermione nodded, and George winced, grinding the heel of his palm against his forehead.

“I was thinking about Professor Flitwick. I really liked him. No matter what mischief Fred and I were getting up to he always seemed more interested in getting us to explain the magic we used than in telling us off.” He chuckled fondly and took another pull from a hip flask before holding it out to Hermione.

“No thanks,” she said. “I think he might have had a secret soft spot for the pair of you, too.” Hermione smiled as she recalled how impressed with their efforts the Professor had seemed after the incident with the portable swamp. George caught her up in a sudden hug; the smell of strong drink was cloying, and the meagre light caught in unexpectedly wild eyes.

“What do you think happens to them, Hermione? On the other side of the veil?”  he whispered. She forced herself to relax, to hug back before she spoke.

“I think some go on, and some are waiting for us to catch up to go together.” She rubbed gentle circles on his back, sure he was thinking of Fred. As his hold eased, she patted him once more and stood up.

“Come back in when you’re ready. I’ll let Angelina know where you are if she’s looking for you.” Hermione paused once more at the door, catching George’s eye. “One day, we’ll see them all again.” George nodded thoughtfully as she slipped inside the still noisy pub. A second later he blanched, painfully clutching at his head.

“Maybe, one day soon” he whispered to the clear night sky.


	3. Death and Diplomacy

 

 

Hermione had learned to hate the noise which the goblin sitting opposite made in the back of his throat before he spoke. It was a strangled hacking that inevitably indicated he was about to say something disagreeable.  

“We cannot bury our heads in the sand, Miss Granger,” he finally grated out. “A lot of the Pureblood factions and even just the more conservative Ministers are saying you will not succeed in pushing through a Treaty - even if one can be agreed on.”

Hermione reflexively smoothed the parchment in front of her and glanced around the odd collection of attendees at the meeting. Bothrik was the head of the Goblin Delegation, Ronan and Firenze were the Centaurs representatives, and of course, the newly minted Junior Under-Secretary to the Minister was currently acting for the interests of the Ministry. Hermione narrowed her eyes toward the woman, impeccably robed and coiffed, flawlessly made up and toting a beautiful hand-tooled leather compendium in which she scratched her notes every time she objected or interjected or otherwise derailed proceedings. Marietta Edgecombe was going to be a thorn in Hermione’s paw for no other reason than the grudge she still bore.

“The point is, Hermione, I don’t think you can sell a single unifying treaty when you are talking about such disparate species. They can’t even settle on a list of demands for goodness sake.

Hermione smiled blandly.

“Have I told you how nice your fringe looks Marietta? You must let me know who does your hair.”

Marietta’s expression turned venomous, but her tone was sickly sweet.

“Yes, I can see you still struggle with yours.”

Hermione was given a moment’s respite from the conversation as, with a loud pop, the Head of the Ministry’s House Elves, Beezy, appeared with a heavily laden tea trolley.

“Is any of the Delegates wanting elevenses?” Apparently, morning tea was something all those present could agree on, so once they had their mouths safely stopped up with ample tea and biscuits, Hermione began over.

“The proposed treaty may be unpopular, but it is the right thing to do, and in the end, all of us will benefit from improved interspecies relationships. Now that the heads of the various lines of House-Elves have agreed to Beezy speaking on their behalf we can finally make some progress.” She flicked her wand, and a pile of scrolls appeared on the table which Beezy hastened to collect. However, with a dismissive wave of her wand, Marietta vanished them.

“The Ministry has made just a _few_ amendments to the proposed treaty,” Marietta said, once more waving her wand causing a half dozen scrolls tied with mustard yellow ribbons to skitter across the tabletop and motioning to Beezy to pass them around to those present.

“Amendments?” Hermione asked unable to bite her tongue. She took the scroll from Beezy and untied the bow, wondering how much face she was going to lose with the rest of the delegates as a result of Ministry interference. She drew a deep breath and unrolled the parchment “Let’s get to it shall we?”

****

The clock had just chimed two as Bothrik rolled up the scroll in front of him, his long, bony fingers crushing the creaking parchment in their grip. Firenze also placed the manuscript back on the table where it rolled closed with a dry whisper. His face was impassive, as was Ronan’s, but Hermione couldn’t miss the furious flick of their tails as they had read the Ministry’s amendments to the proposed Treaty.

“Am I correct, Miss Edgecombe, when I say it is the Ministry’s position that any treaty to increase the integration between our people would include an undertaking by the Goblin Nation to abide by the Statute of Secrecy, _without_ the usual exceptions, indefinitely?” Bothrik’s gravelly voice was low and dangerous.

The Junior-Under Secretary smiled brightly as she spoke.

“All new signatories to the Statute would be required to maintain it without exception, yes, though hardly indefinitely, Envoy Bothrik. It says plainly the probationary parties would have this measure reviewed on the centenary of signing, and what is a century to your people?”

Bothrik favoured Marietta with a glare.

“A hundred years is indeed of little consequence to the Goblin Nation, given our span is so much greater than your own.” Marietta drew breath to interrupt, but he continued, his voice growing louder.  “However, I am certain you are well aware our King has been in love with a Muggle woman for eighteen years. This _petty_ stipulation would see them separated and the Lady would be long dead before the century is up. Which is no doubt the purpose of such a clause, to ensure this... _treaty_ is unacceptable to us.”

He jumped down from his chair and jabbed viciously at the scroll on the table with the end of his cane before stalking toward the door, where he paused turning to look at Hermione.  

“Lady Sarah is much beloved by my people, more so than any witch or wizard alive, perhaps we should be negotiating with her race, rather than yours.” Then he turned on his heel and was gone, slamming the chamber door behind him. The remaining members of the Goblin delegation looked equally furious as they too jumped down from their chairs and hastened from the room without a word.

“Well, really!” Said, Marietta, as she snatched up her quill and began scribbling furiously in her notes, seemingly impervious to the looks she was receiving from her colleagues. Firenze’s hindquarters shifted uneasily as Ronan pawed the carpet. Hermione’s lips pressed into thin, furious, white line and her eyebrows knitted together as she frantically considered and discarded ideas to try and salvage _anything_ from the day’s meeting. A moment or two passed in tense silence while Beezy collected the crockery left on the table by the departed Goblins and loaded it back onto the tea trolley. Once finished he came to stand by Hermione’s elbow.

“Beezy must return to his work now Miss, as it seems the meeting is done, but he will sign the treaty. Such a rule changes nothing for the House Elves.” With that, he bowed low enough for the tip of his long nose to brush the carpet before vanishing along with the tea trolley.

Marietta now glanced up expectantly at the Centaurs, her quill poised above the page and a smug sneer pulling at the corner of her smile, turning it into something ugly.

Firenze crossed his arms over his chest, but Ronan did not flinch.

“I think, the Centaurs will _not_ be a party to this treaty,” he said as Marietta dropped her gaze from their guests.  

“I _am_ sorry to hear that, Ambassador,” she said, distracted by scratching away in her notes at a frenzied tempo. Ronan leant forward and slapped his palms against the table top with such force that her ink pot rattled against the wooden surface causing Marietta to squeak with fright and drag her quill across the page.

“Wizardkind are so quick to try and impose their laws on others, but do precious little with them to protect us,” he said, the air seemed to vibrate with the anger of his baritone voice. Hermione stood up hastily, and the backs of her knees caught the chair behind her, toppling it to the floor with a crash and eliciting a second yelp from the Junior Under-Secretary.

“Why don’t I escort our guests out, Marietta?  Hermione said as she made her way over to hold the door open for the centaurs.  A tense second passed before Firenze laid a hand upon the other centaur’s shoulder and ushered him out into the corridor.  

The hallways in this part of the building were only wide enough for the two centaurs to walk abreast, so with Hermione having to walk several steps ahead, the three were unable to speak until they reached the foyer and were waiting for the lift.  Hermione pushed the call button and turned to face her companions.

“I would like to apologise for losing my temper,” Ronan gestured back the way they had come. “However, that woman means to thwart the treaty and still come out smelling like Guelder roses.”

Bells chimed as several lifts arrived at once and a dozen or so memos fluttered out of the opening doors. A single lift would not accommodate both centaurs at once, so Ronan and Hermione stepped into one, while Firenze took another to the ground floor.

As soon as the doors slid closed behind them, Ronan continued.

“There has been dissent amongst the tribes for several weeks now, and I fear the faction urging our leaders to abandon cooperation with the Wizards is gaining support.”

“Does Bane’s resolve waver then?” she asked, her heart sinking at the thought.

Ronan cursed beneath his breath.

“I suspected they would not have told you. Bane is dead and with him much of the support for the continued accord between our species.”

Hermione sagged against the wall of the lift, feeling winded. So many long hours had been invested in bringing all the magic-wielding species to the table, and now it seemed to be unravelling, a sensation that intensified as Ronan finished speaking.

“Three weeks ago, Bane was hunting at the very edge of the forest and did not return. We found him slain, an arrow buried in his breast.  In the new spirit of cooperation between our peoples Firenze and I ventured to Hogsmeade to report the murder and seek your assistance in catching the perpetrator, but your patrolman there, declined to involve himself in the ‘skirmishes of savages’ he said.”  Ronan bristled. “No centaur slew Bane. The arrow is the like of which we have never used.”

Hermione laid a hand against Ronan’s flank.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss and the insensitive treatment you received in Hogsmeade.  If you would be willing to send me the arrow to examine, I promise I will personally take the matter up with the Minister for Magic and Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

The lift reached the ground floor, and with a slight jerk, the doors opened. They stepped out just as Firenze walked across the foyer to them. Ronan took the hand Hermione proffered.

“I will do as you ask. The night skies are full of warning, Hermione, take heed.”  

****

With fingers drumming on the desk, Hermione read the last paragraph of the case notes in front of her.  Yesterday’s conversation with Ronan had weighed heavily on her mind, so the first thing she had done upon arriving at the office this morning was to make some inquiries.  It was indeed the same Magical Law Enforcement Patrolman who investigated Professor Flitwick’s death six weeks ago who had so cavalierly dismissed Firenze and Ronan’s report of a second homicide. Now having read his interim findings regarding the Professor’s death, she was very concerned the investigation had stalled and would likely be written off as a robbery gone wrong. There was little evidence it was anything else, yet Hermione found herself rubbing at her temples unable to shake the sense of foreboding which had descended on her.

A grey owl swooped in and dropped a copy of The Daily Prophet on her desk and waited patiently while Hermione fished about in her change jar for a single Knut and added it to the pouch on his leg. Once the owl had winged away, she decided to call for some tea and take a few minutes to read the paper. The habit forged years ago at Hogwarts had stuck, and she still hated the idea something unexpected appearing in the press ambushing her.

As she had anticipated a “Ministry source” had given The Prophet all the sordid details on yesterday’s fiasco and the headlines squawked of the failure of the Goblins and Centaurs to accept the Ministry’s “generous” treaty terms and the debacle of the Goblins early departure and threats to negotiate a treaty with Muggles. A seething Bothrik, stalked out of the picture on the front page only to return and glare furiously at her. She moved quickly on, Quidditch scores, a puff piece about a celebrity witch that Hermione only vaguely recognised and then some short snippets from around the country.

She had just begun to relax and enjoy her tea when one of these “local colour” stories leapt out at her.  

The article came from the village of Stalham and somewhat glibly recounted the unfortunate death of resident, Gustav Jugson, who had reportedly fallen on his own gardening shears last week. It went on to say that Jugson had only recently moved to the village after his release from New Azkaban but offered little more detail.  Not that Hermione needed it, she remembered Jugson well from the Battle in the Department of Mysteries, and how he had finagled a reduced sentence for his crimes by revealing some of those Death Eaters who had not been unmasked by the time of Voldemort’s death.

“Could all this just be a coincidence?” She wondered “Or _is_ it possible the three deaths are connected somehow? Hermione was well aware of the Ministry’s efforts to have events such as these swept beneath the carpet to avoid opening the still healing fractures in Wizarding society. Now she couldn’t help but suspect the flippant tone of the reporting of Jugson’s demise was due to the Ministry's desire for these to be “isolated incidents” rather than part of a larger pattern.  Her cup clattered against the saucer as she pushed it and the uneaten Hobnob biscuit to one side and reached for her quill. She knew she wasn’t likely to have any peace of mind unless she did some more digging into these deaths.

****

It was early afternoon when her hand cramped up too much to make any more notes or write any more requests for documents in the cases. Far from having found anything to reassure her, the records she had received from the Patrolman in Stalham suggested there had been evidence of trace magic at the scene. Though his final report dismissed this as significant because “Jugson may have been bespelling his begonias.”

Hermione rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms above her head, but the ache between her shoulder blades remained.  She decided a walk up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would stretch out the kinks, and she with any luck she would be able to catch up with the boys and get their thoughts.

She was stepping from the stairwell onto Level Two when she was spotted by Arthur Weasley waiting for a lift. He gave her a cheery wave, and Hermione found herself smiling in return. Though the Weasley’s fortunes had somewhat improved these days with all of the children grown and left home, at present Arthur seemed to look like he had crawled through a hedge backwards. His olive-green robes had dark navy streaks and blotches, and it appeared he had trodden on the hem in several places pulling it loose. Even the tassel on his hat seemed limp.  

“Hello Arthur, what brings you by? Have you been in to see Ron and Harry?” she asked.

“I was hoping to,” he said sheepishly, two spots of colour appearing in his cheeks. “I made something of a mess at home and Molly is quite put out with me I’m afraid. I wondered, do you think Harry might know anything about Muggle washing machines and where I went wrong?

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as Arthur continued the tale of his latest disaster with a Muggle gadget he had carted home. After magically enlarging the interior so he could do _all_ the washing at once he had attempted to soup up the machine’s motor which had somehow resulted in flooding the entire ground floor of The Burrow with waist deep soap suds.

“Oh, Arthur!” She shook her head fondly at him. “How on earth are you going to make it up to her?”

“Well, that is where I anticipated young Ronald would make himself useful, I wanted to slip away early this afternoon, take Molly to Dinner at Sybil Leek’s new restaurant in Diagon Alley, so I was hoping he’d take this last case of the week off my hands.” He gestured to the folder he had beneath one arm.

“But I seem to be out of luck, the boys have just been called out to the scene of a suspicious fire, I doubt they’ll be back for a few hours,” he said looking crestfallen.

Hermione hefted a theatrical sigh.

“What’s the case?”

“A simple collection. An elderly squib, Able Date, who lived in a Muggle village has passed away, and the local authorities couldn’t find any relatives, so they disposed of his possessions to various Charity and Junk Shops. Except now a distant cousin on the Wizarding side has come forward to say he believes that at the time of his death Able was in possession of a powerfully charmed and potentially dangerous artefact. I just need someone to pop along to the junk shop and collect it, you know on any _other_ day I’d love to visit a Muggle junk shop…” he trailed off, giving Hermione a pleading gaze.

“Well, if the object has fallen into Muggle Hands I suppose it could come under the work of the Cultural Liaison,” she said holding her hand out to take the file.

Arthur kissed her cheek.

“Thank you, dear, you’ve saved my bacon.”

****

Glad of the distraction, Hermione returned to her office and combed through the file Arthur had left with her. The case did seem to be a straightforward one. With a report filed by a third cousin of Mr Date’s which described the object: a silver, early twentieth-century cigarette lighter and some notes in Arthur’s handwriting explaining that he had tracked the lighter and believed it to have been part of a consignment sent to a junk shop in Ticehurst, Sussex.

Despite her familiarity with Muggle technology there were no working telephones inside the Ministry for Magic so calling the junk shop and asking them to hang onto the lighter wasn’t an option.  Now she found herself grunting most inelegantly as she hefted an enormous, leather bound, tome from the bookshelf onto the desktop. The ancient leather creaked, and a scent of must and mildew pervaded the office as she turned the first few leaves. Open the book resembled nothing so much as a muggle phone directory. She turned to the entries for “T.”

“Blast! Arthur must have seen me coming, the cheeky sod.” Although it was possible to apparate from any one place to another, provided your destination was not warded against such activity, of course, it was common practice to utilise "Official" Ministry established apparation points if travelling to an area with which you were unfamiliar. The idea was to avoid arriving in the middle of the High Street or something similarly inappropriate. According to the directory there _was_ no apparation point in the completely Muggle village of Ticehurst, the nearest one was in Five Ashes, which was a tiny village, miles from much else, so Hermione decided that it would be eminently more practical to apparate to the official point just outside Royal Tunbridge Wells and rent a car. Even so, it would be at least an hour’s round trip before you allowed for seeking out the junk shop and purchasing the object, longer still if it had already been bought and she had to locate another new owner and persuade him or her to part with their recent acquisition.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. There was no getting this out of the way by five O’clock.

“Then again it _is_ Friday,” she thought. Knowing she had little planned other than trying to catch up with Ron and Harry for a drink and to talk about her disquiet regarding the recent deaths,  which was probably just her anxiety speaking, she began to consider a weekend away.  

“Oh, to hell with it,” she thought.  She would stop by her place and grab an overnight bag and find somewhere quaint and quiet to stop over on the way home, perhaps a few days of nosing about in curiosity shops and second-hand bookstores far away for Wizarding politics would do her some good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited! Next Chapter our mystery guest will return to Hermione's life and shake things up!


	4. A weekend in the country

 

In the end, she made very reasonable time and reached the beautiful village of Ticehurst just before two o’clock.

 

The man at the car rental place had told her the local pub was well known for doing delicious, reasonably priced meals which sounded promising. Now Hermione was taking the opportunity to admire the township's beautiful, old, church as she drove into the picturesque hamlet while dappled sunlight filtered through the foliage of oak trees that lined the road.

 

It had been quite some time since she had been out and about in the muggle world, and the prospect of a weekend in the country enjoying the lovely, sunny, weather strongly appealed to her.

 

As she entered the village proper, Hermione parked outside a well maintained Tudor style building on the main street, with a sign in its neat garden proclaiming it to be a Bed and Breakfast. She rolled down the front windows to catch the faint breeze while she examined the millennia-old A-Z she had found in the glove box.

 

The address Arthur had provided for where his mysterious artefact had been shipped was for a curiosity shop called “Tin pots & Tea Kettles”. Which she could now discern lay toward the far end of the village, a few blocks back from the high street.

 

****

 

The walk in the afternoon sun was pleasant but warmer than expected and Hermione was grateful as she stepped into the shade cast by the strip of four broad shopfronts. The facade of “Tin Pots & Tea Kettles” was weathered and age-blackened sandstone with a lush honeysuckle vine growing from the nearby fence across the face of the building and atop the door lintel lent which the air a heady fragrance. The window was hung with bright bunting and displayed a mishmash of antique toys, glass jars filled with vintage buttons and old-fashioned biscuit tins Hermione just _knew_ were filled with sewing needles and spools of thread. As she pushed the door open and stepped into the cool interior which smelled like beeswax and linseed oil, woodsmoke and the familiar mustiness of old books, a bell jingled cheerily above her.

 

A counter made of some type of dark wood ran along the right-hand side of the shop behind which a pale young girl, with a long fall of straight dark hair, sat reading, she glanced up at the sound of the bell.

 

“Can I help you?” She asked, “Or are you just browsing?”

 

“Actually, I’m looking for something specific, it would have come in early last week with stuff from a deceased estate?” Hermione said.

 

“Oh, okay, one second and I’ll get Mum” the girl stood and disappeared through the bead curtain covering the doorway to the rear of the store where she could be heard calling for her mother.

 

Hermione scrutinised her surrounds and realised the store was much larger than it appeared from outside, extending back and running behind the other shops in the strip.

 

“I’m sure she won’t be a minute,” the girl said as she came back to the counter.  

 

At this moment Hermione was examining the items in the glass cases atop the counter hoping to spot the lighter amid the jewelled hat pins, brooches and antique watches within.

 

“No school today?” she asked.

 

“No, I had chicken pox last week, so I’m not allowed back until Monday.” The girl’s tone was wistful in a way Hermione could relate to, and she found herself unsurprised to note several more books stacked neatly at the girl’s elbow.

 

With a cacophonous rattling, the bead curtain was pushed aside as a middle-aged woman emerged. Her brunette hair was a wild nimbus of curls that fell about her shoulders in chestnut ringlets and in a peasant blouse and full-length muslin skirt the store’s proprietor looked like she belonged in a Romanticist painting rather than a curiosity shop in East Sussex.

 

“Hello, I’m Geraldine, and this is Mallory,” she said indicating the girl behind the counter, “how can we help you?

 

“I’m hoping to locate a specific item I believe was sent here, it was part of the deceased estate of Able Date?

 

“Oh, certainly we can help with that. Were you a friend of Mr Date?” Hermione nodded as Geraldine motioned to follow as she moved away from the counter and into the delightful labyrinth of Bric-à-Brac. They walked along meandering pathways between teetering shelves full sundry pieces of objets d’art and leather-bound books. Here and there were genuine curios, like the weathered grotesque squatting in a corner who must once have graced a cathedral and the Fortune Telling automaton sitting at the end of an aisle, which undoubtedly belonged in a museum and whose eyes followed Hermione in a most unsettling way as she scuttled along in Geraldine’s wake.

 

“The larger pieces from the consignment are in the workshop. There is a marvellous wardrobe, Applewood, if I’m not mistaken, originally from the Kirke Estate it passed to Mr Date in 1949, and a charming roll-top desk. They’ll need a bit of love and a good polish of course before I put them out for sale.”

 

Geraldine paused in a portion of the store in which a full dining suite had been set up. The space was partitioned from the rest of the shop by china cabinets filled with an odd assortment of the mundane and macabre. Silver candelabras on display beside works of taxidermy, while soup tureens jostled for space on shelves with framed examples of Victorian mourning portraits.

 

“This is where I put out a number of the smaller pieces from the estate, which item were you looking for in particular?”  The older woman asked.

 

“A silver cigarette lighter? Early 20th Century, possibly World War I trench art?” Hermione replied moving closer to the nearest of the glass-fronted cabinets and examining its contents more closely.

 

Geraldine tilted her head to one side with a quizzical expression on her face and a well-manicured finger tapping the cupid’s bow of her lips.

“I’m sorry, I thought I was familiar with all the pieces that were brought in as part of that lot, but I can’t recall that one. Are you certain it was sent here?” She said.

 

Hermione nodded, causing her host to once more disappear amongst the stacks. Geraldine swept gracefully from one cabinet to the next, dismissing each with a wave of her hand as Hermione trailed along behind her, longing to stop and look at the many piles of books and esoteric objects which piqued her curiosity as they passed but unable to shake the feeling that if she lost her guide she might never find her way out. She was therefore taken aback to round a corner by a heavily carved Jacobean chair and find herself stepping out next to the counter once more.

 

“Perhaps I popped it in one of the cases here without thinking,” Geraldine said moving toward the counter.

 

Mallory placed a bookmark in her reading.

 

“What is it you’re looking for Mum?” she asked.

 

“I’m after part of the consignment that came in last week? A silver cigarette lighter? You don’t know what I did with it do you, Sweetheart? I just can’t see it in my mind’s eye.” As if struck by inspiration she flung open a nearby armoire and peered into it.

 

“You sold it already,” Mallory said.

 

“Hmph?” Geraldine said as she emerged from inside the cupboard.

 

“I said, you sold it already. To Sorry, days ago” Mallory repeated.

 

Geraldine’s gaze cleared and she nodded brightly.

 

“Of course, how did I forget? I’m very sorry Miss, but I’m afraid it’s been sold.”

 

“Oh, that’s rotten luck,” Hermione fibbed smoothly, “I don’t suppose you would consider putting me in touch with the buyer would you? It’s just, my mother was one of Mr Date’s carers, and she was always teasing him about giving up smoking. She was so fond of him, and I know it would mean a great deal to her if I could find it as a keepsake.”

 

Geraldine pursed her lips and came back to the counter.

 

“I’m normally reluctant to do that, but I get a sense this is important to you and you don’t seem like some pushy antique dealer looking to score a bargain.” She scribbled a name and address on the back of a business card.

 

“Here you go, but be warned, don’t make a nuisance of yourself, Sorry is well liked in the village.”

 

****

 

Hermione returned to the car for the A-Z before making her way through the village toward the address for a Mr Sorenson Kerr, given to her by Geraldine. Forge Cottage, number one, Lymden Lane,   which according to the map was a narrow lane off a side road on the left side of the town.

 

Hermione had thought about transfiguring her work robes into a skirt and blazer and posing as an antique dealer, but having decided to make a mini-break of her trip she instead had slipped into a pair of jeans and a simple long-sleeved blouse. Neat but not fussy and she was glad of it now.

 

The warm sun against her cheeks felt wonderful as she turned into Lymden Lane and immediately spied her destination. The main building was the first cottage in a row of neat red brick townhouses, number one, which was closest to her, had a white weatherboard extension which looked like a home office or perhaps an artist’s studio, with a large picture window facing her, a midnight blue mug steamed on the window sill.

 

“Good,” she thought “someone is at home.”

 

Walking up to the front door she could hear whistling and a radio blaring Black Sabbath. As she lifted her hand to the heavy brass knocker she stopped short, as something faintly electric whispered across the skin of her fingertips, a chilly sense of unease settling into the pit of her stomach. She stepped back into the roadway and ran a careful eye over the building’s façade. Nothing. She scanned the street, but it lay quiet, even the birds had stilled and the world felt like it was holding its breath as she drew her wand.

 

“Aparecium” she whispered.

 

There was no response. She shook her head and tucked her wand away again. Perhaps the mysterious charmed object she was here investigating was responsible for that merest breath of magic.

 

“The sooner it's safely contained the better if that is the case,” she thought.

 

So with fresh determination, she seized the door knocker, but in the heartbeat between hefting it and hearing it thump against the wood of the door, the feather-light touch came again, running across her palms and up her arms, raising the hair like static electricity.

 

A thought rang bell-like through the vaulted confines of her mind. _“Something extraordinary is about to happen”_.

 

A second later the door was opened by a smiling, dark-haired, man that for the briefest instant her eyes refused to recognise, and then she was looking down the length of his wand pointing at her, his dark eyes cold, and flat, no echo of the smile remained. She hadn't even seen him move.

 

“No,” he said in a steady voice that held no fear or malice, only an implacable resolve.

 

****

 

He pulled the door open and his world fractured into bright, splintered shards of memory and recrimination.

 

The wand was in her hand in an instant. Merlin, she was fast; but he had been faster. That thought made him pause – surely had she been looking for him, her wand would have been at the ready?

 

 _“And she wouldn't have rung the doorbell you dimwitted dolt”_ he chided himself inwardly.

 

A long, dangerous, second passed between them. It didn't matter why she was here, or what she wanted, things were different now.

“Lower your wand, Miss Granger, I have neither the time nor patience to deal with you today” his tone biting though he kept his voice low.

 

Her glance never wavered from his.

 

“It has been some years since I was a student Mister Snape, perhaps you should lower yours.”

 

 _“Touche´”_ he thought, she hadn’t placed any emphasis on “Mister” and yet he understood the message. He was no longer her teacher nor she a wide-eyed ingénue.

 

He stared at the blasted woman on his doorstep. How had the Ministry found him? Though he surreptitiously scanned the area he didn't sense anyone else hiding in the bushes along the path, nor did the few people passing by the mouth of the lane look out of place in the village.  

 

She _had_ appeared shocked by his appearance at the door, was it just remotely possible that Miss Granger - one of the very last people he would have wanted to discover him, had found him by accident?

 

His eyes narrowed as he contemplated his options. He could take the girl in a duel, he was still sure of that much, but, his eyes darted to end of the lane, better not to attract attention, and attacking Hermione Bloody Granger would do exactly that. No better to let her have rope enough to hang herself with. Her own curiosity would have her follow him off of the street where surely he would be able to Confund or Obliviate her, at worst he would find an opportunity to slip her a sleeping draught.  

 

A tactical withdrawal then. He paused a second longer before dropping his gaze and letting the wand drop to his side.

 

****

Hermione let out the breath she had been unaware she was holding, but neither let her gaze or wand drop.  

 

"Miss Granger. Seeing you was, unexpected, and I reacted on instincts I did not know I still possessed. I did not intend to frighten you. Please come in" he said.

 

She wavered and then lowered her wand.

 

"Unexpected is definitely the word," she said.


	5. An unexpected wrinkle

  
Hermione watched him cautiously as he slid the wand back into his pocket and stepped away from the door into the hallway. It was light and airy, the paintwork a pleasing robin’s egg blue with white skirting boards and baltic pine floors. Not at all as she might have expected, which must have shown on her face as she noted the deepening scowl on her host.

Still wary, she paused for an instant on the threshold before making herself step through so he could close the door and lead the way down the passage which appeared to run the length of the house.  
  
The doors leading from the hall were all closed, giving her no chance to see what lay beyond. However, it was with interest she saw what must be the lighter she had come to investigate. It sat on a long narrow table against the wall of the corridor beneath a glass bell jar, also on the table were an antique deck of cards, an ancient-looking figurine and a battered tobacco tin with a bullet lodged in it, each similarly on display.

Reaching the end of the hallway, they emerged into the kitchen, French doors looked out into the back yard where rows of garden beds boasted a meticulously tended herb garden, beyond which a pretty, woodsy, sort of wilderness lay. The kitchen itself was all dark wood and gleaming black tile. Dominating the room were floor to ceiling, glass-fronted cabinets holding jars of dried herbs, exotic spices and mysterious looking ingredients all labelled in a familiar spiky handwriting, while a dozen cast iron pots and pans hung from a rack above the island bench.

Although lacking the dungeons’ perpetual gloom Hermione was still strongly reminded of the potions lab and seeing him here it was easier to believe her host was indeed her former Potions Professor. Alive and apparently well.

Snape, for that, was who she now accepted it was, walked to the far end of the kitchen by the sink, but Hermione hung back, keeping the island bench between them as she tried to get a handle on the situation while an endless procession of questions presented themselves.

She watched him silently as he filled and switched on the electric kettle and then casually reached onto a shelf beside the sink and flipped the radio off.

" _Odd_ " Hermione thought to herself. " _That was definitely a radio, not a wizarding wireless,_ " she glanced around the well-appointed space as he set out cups for tea and noted a toaster, an electric mixer and other standard Muggle appliances. This certainly seemed to be a Muggle home rather than a magical household.

Next, she found herself examining her host. Hermione thought he looked well, still slender but without being gaunt, as he had been previously. Likewise, he seemed less sallow than she remembered and she supposed he must be getting more sun in this new life of his. Wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark blue jeans he certainly looked the part.

“ _Although,_ ” she mused “ _his hair is still too long to be fashionable._ ”

As she watched him brew the tea, the breath caught in Hermione’s throat with a soft gasp, startled at the sight of the black snake and skull openly visible on his forearm. Even though a tattoo like that fit with a modern Muggle persona and she doubted anyone in the mundane world would have spared it a second glance, she couldn’t ward off the sudden way her heart lurched against her ribs, or how her scalp prickled at once again seeing the Dark Mark on someone’s arm.

Snape stopped dead at her faint exclamation lapsing into an almost unnatural stillness, the way an animal might when it scents danger. Following her glance to his arm, he carefully placed the teacups on the benchtop in front of him and rolled down his sleeve concealing the mark from view. Then sought her eyes while raising both hands to chest height palm open toward her.

“Miss Granger?” He said, his tone silky “Miss Granger, put up your wand. I have no intention of hurting you.”

It was only then Hermione became aware of the wand in her hand; it’s comforting smoothness held firm pointed directly at the heart of the man in front of her. She expelled a long ragged breath, forcing her shoulders to relax, and lowering the wand to her side.

“It seems I must also apologise for my reflexes Sir”.

The “Sir” had slipped out before she could catch it and she bit her tongue furiously nevertheless she held his gaze. Finding herself once more regarding the face of her former Professor, something began to nag her about his appearance, a flash of insight gone before she could grasp it, leaving in its wake a sense that something was not quite right. She felt her eyebrows draw together and her brow furrow as she worried at the edges of it trying to put her finger on what it was that was out of place.

 

********

 

Severus sifted through his options, the woman was obviously rattled to find him alive, and the feelings being dredged up rendered the situation more volatile than he would have liked.

Her heightened startle reflex dissuaded him from trying to stun or confund her; an all-out duel in his kitchen was not a desirable outcome for this situation. He also discounted obliviating her. Whatever else you might say about her, Miss Granger had a remarkably organised mind with much time spent developing her ability for recall. He suspected that anything more subtle than a crude, brute-force memory modification would eventually break down and as tempting as he told himself that maybe, he had no genuine inclination to render her into a state like that detestable blowhard, Lockhart.

Severus found himself once more scowling at her as he recognised the instant when the idea took root that something about him was off.

“ _Why did I even bother studying Legilimency?_ ” He thought as his jaw tensed in anticipation of the question he knew would come.

“You’re not dead?” she said

“Evidently.”

“But how? I saw you...leave.” He cocked an eyebrow at her choice of words and that defiant little chin jutted out, “I saw you die, Mr Snape” she said more firmly.

“Obviously, Miss Granger, you didn’t.” Severus heard a familiar haughty tone creep into his voice. “Even Muggles know that death can be harder to establish than you might think. It’s why only Doctors can certify when someone has died. I cannot think of anyone less reliable to do so than three malnourished, sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fuelled teenagers in the midst of a pitched battle.”

He watched as she slid her wand away taking those few seconds to school her features into a relaxed, neutral sort of expression.

“Of course, you’re quite right,” she said “I suppose the three of us must have simply been mistaken,” but the disarming smile which followed did not reach her eyes. She didn’t believe it for a second.

“ _Insufferable know-it-all,_ ” he thought as he slid the still steaming cup across the bench toward her.

“Your tea, Miss Granger.”

 

********

 

“ _What a load of tripe._ ” Hermione thought as she accepted the proffered cup and stepped closer to the bench so she could add milk and sugar. She stirred the aromatic liquid and then gently lay the teaspoon next to it on the saucer but made no move to drink. After thirty seconds or so of silence, Snape picked up his own and took a mouthful, letting the silence lengthen a few beats more.

“What is it you want Miss Granger?” He asked and leaned against the counter behind him. He took another sip and placed the cup down beside him, his long fingers making the movement seem dainty.

“I was sent to retrieve something believed to be in the possession of a Mr Sorenson Kerr. Would I be correct in thinking that is, in fact, you?” She said.

There was a pause while he picked up his cup, and then a nod as he glared at her over its rim, a calculating glint in his eyes.

“And you bought a silver lighter at Tin Pots and Tea Kettles several days ago that was once the part of the estate of a squib, Able Date? ”

He shifted slightly, his shoulders dropping almost imperceptibly as the tension went out of his whippet-like frame.

“You’re here for Earnest Date’s Trench art lighter?” His inflection was incredulous and faintly amused, as though the idea of that being the cause for her visit would not have occurred to him.

“ _Able_ Date” Hermione corrected.

“ _Earnest_ Date,” He said in a tone mimicking her own.

“How very unlike you not to have done your homework, Miss Granger. The lighter may have been part of Able’s estate, but it originally belonged to his elder brother, Earnest, who fought in the First World War and always swore it was his lucky charm. He was so adamant about its influence that years later when Able was born and found to be a squib, he insisted on gifting it to his brother because he thought Able would need luck more than he did. Earnest had become very rich and influential by then, and many of the family put it down to the charmed lighter. Now tell me, why is The Ministry bent on retrieving such a trifle? Even if it is a reputed Augerite?”

“Augerite?” Hermione scoffed, “Lucky charms are an utter nonsense.”

“Are they indeed?” A single eyebrow arched in response to her pronunciation. “Then why on earth are you here in search of one?”

Hermione rested a hand on her hip.

“The Ministry received a report from a cousin of Mr Date that a potentially hexed or inappropriately charmed object amongst his things may have passed into the possession of Muggles.”

Snape surprised her then with a deep, pleasant, laugh.

“A report no doubt engineered by Alistair Lifera.” Snape shook his head with an amused twist to his lips as he again reached for his tea.

“He was several years ahead of me at school. The Liferas were the poor but pureblood relations to the Date family, and Alistair was always grousing that any Augerite should have been kept in the Magical community - meaning it should have been given to his branch of the family. How unfortunate for Alistair that I beat him to it. This was the best chance to get his hands on it I suppose.”

Hermione nodded, well aware that it was indeed one of the Liferas who had made the report. She rubbed her temples.

“Well, that creates quite a conundrum.”

“How so, Miss Granger? The Liferas wanted the lighter, I had already purchased it in good faith. End of story.”

Hermione drummed her fingers on the bench top.

“Oh don’t be obtuse Mr Snape, or, should I call you Mr Kerr? I have only three options open to me in a situation where a paper trail leading here exists.” She said and then ticked them off on her fingers.

“One: Return with the object. Two: Log a report that it remains in the hands of a wizard, which will draw attention as there are no known Magicals in the area, or, Three: Log a report that the object was unrecovered from the owner of record. Which is almost certainly going to attract a visit from the Misuse of Muggle Artifact Office, or worse, a squad of Obliviators. Do you have a preference?”

He glowered at her from beneath his brows but said nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air.

“Honestly! Can’t you see I’m trying to help? I know we weren’t friends, but we were still on the same side. What changed that you’re willing to hide here amongst Muggles? Willing to draw a wand on me just for coming to the door? Willing to drug my tea?”

“I want to be left alone.” He said in that familiar sotto voce. “And as interested as I am to study an Augerite whose history has been thoroughly documented, I want to be left in peace more. So, just take it and get out.

He turned away from her as he put his cup in the sink.

“Granger, one more thing.”

“Yes?” Hermione tensed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, unsure what to expect.

“How did you know there was sleeping draught in the tea?”

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and smiled.

“Constant Vigilance,” she said and was rewarded with another chuckle as she moved toward the hallway.

Hermione paused, the cool brass of the doorknob in her palm.

“Tell you what, Professor Snape, there might be a fourth option.”

 

_****_

 

After further terse discussion, they had come to an arrangement. As Hermione had planned to stay in Ticehurst over the weekend anyway, Professor Snape could investigate the lighter over the weekend and Hermione would return with it to the Ministry on Monday with no one any the wiser.

Saturday had been an ecstasy of sleeping in, followed by a ramble in Bedgebury National Forest and an afternoon spent stopping at whatever little village shops caught her eye for tea and second-hand book buying on the way back to her Bed and Breakfast.

Sunday, she had decided, would be for exploring Ticehurst itself. So, after a late, lazy, breakfast Hermione resolved to take a stroll through the town and explore the historic church on its outskirts.

She was only a block from her digs when she went to cross the mouth of a narrow lane and caught sight of a familiar figure in conversation a stone’s throw away. Hermione stepped back and peeped around the corner.

There, in the dappled shade of the country byway, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone. An elderly woman stood several feet away on the footpath. The woman posture was markedly stooped and the fingers gripping her cane were hoary and gnarled with arthritis.

It appeared her carrier bag had split sending her groceries spilling onto the footpath.

“Och. What a nuisance. And don’t think I don’t see you lurking there, Sorenson. Tsk, away with you, I can manage.”

Snape straightened from where he had been collecting up the spilt shopping from the path and shifted the items into the crook of his arm.

“I’m going right by yours, Margaret,” said Snape evenly. “I may as well help you get this lot home.”

Hermione leaned forward, straining to hear, eventually stepping into the lane a few paces to keep the pair in earshot as Margaret tutted again at Snape, but it was half-hearted, and she allowed him to stroll alongside her carrying her meagre groceries to the door.  
  
As the woman fumbled with her house key, Hermione watched as Snape examined a can of Ravioli from amongst the old lady’s shopping before making a disgusted noise.

“You don’t actually plan to eat this muck? That won’t do. Why don’t I do a proper Sunday roast, Love? Nice leg of lamb and mint jelly? With Yorkshire pud and spuds?”

At that moment the key finally turned in the lock and the older woman started to reply

“That’s very kind, but I —” however, his chuckling cut her off.

“Now, you know you never can say no to me Miss Margaret,” he said in a light, jovial tone and then bent to place the groceries just inside the doorway.

“You should be finding yourself a good, sensible girl, Sorry, instead of making all this fuss over me.”

Snape straightened and with a devilish grin he winked at the elderly woman.

“But you’re my best girl, Peggy.” He said and stole a peck on the cheek while the older woman giggled girlishly, he then turned on his heel and strode back along the path.

“I’m back at noon with the roast.” He said with a wave.

A Blackcap began to warble in the trees above, and Hermione found herself still standing agape at the exchange she just witnessed as Snape reached where she stood. He passed by without breaking that even, long-legged stride but called back over his shoulder.

“Really Miss Granger, you’ll catch flies if you stand around all day with your mouth open.”

Hermione blushed furiously as his laughter drifted back to her on the morning breeze.

“Horrid man” she muttered under her breath, frustrated that he still possessed the knack to get under her skin with such impunity.

 

********

 

The remainder of Sunday had passed without her further encountering her former teacher. Though she had found her thoughts repeatedly drifting in his direction.

 _“How did he really survive?_ ”

His version was obviously clap-trap, and what on earth was going on with this cheery, likeable rogue act for the locals?

Despite the confidence in her own capabilities, Hermione had few illusions about the chances of holding her own had she actually been pitted against the more seasoned duelist. With the element of surprise on his side, he could have hexed her into next week had he chosen to. What was he hiding? Why was he hiding? Hermione didn’t know, but she was growing in determination to find out.

  
********

 

 

 

Monday morning had rolled around, and the clock in the kitchen was chiming the half hour as Severus slipped in through the french doors. He had barely snibbed them behind him before there came three sharp raps of the door knocker at the front of the house.

He ought to have known the wretched woman would be on time to collect her prize.

" _Not that it would make much difference if she had come in another hour, or a day or in a month of Sundays_." He thought with bitterness.

Try as he might, he had found nothing special about the lighter. No charm lay on it, no hex either, in fact, no enchantment of any kind that he could discern. Just like every other supposed Augerite he had managed to acquire.

He had been hoping that unlike the previous items he bought, which all had purely Muggle origins and only an anecdotal basis for being considered lucky, the lighter's magical background would have allowed him to find something, anything.

" _Where is that first breadcrumb?_ " he mused and turned the lighter over in his hand as he made his way down the corridor, tossing it unceremoniously onto the hall table as he passed.

 

********

 

The door swung open, and with an ill-tempered glare he stepped away into the passage, so she took the chance to move inside. Snape was a few paces further down, where the disputed lighter now sat on the hall table, looking considerably less distinguished than it had under its glass jar as part of the display.

Moving closer she picked it up and turned it over in her hand.

"Did you get what you needed?" She asked glancing up to meet his gaze.

"As is so often the case, its reputation far exceeded its worth."

"I see." She replied and slipped the lighter into her pocket. "I'm authorised to offer you compensation covering what you paid and any other expenses incurred."

"That will not be necessary, Granger. Now, if you have what you came for, I'll show you out." He said brusquely.

"Oh, yes, of course." She squared her shoulders as he moved passed her. How was it he seemed to keep her on the back foot so easily?

She stared at a point between his shoulder blades as he took the three paces back to the door which was still ajar, well aware any attempt to steer him into a deeper conversation would draw his ire but unable to walk away with so many questions left unanswered.

He held the door and with a firm hand in the small of her back guided her over the threshold and onto the stoop.

"Good-bye Miss Granger, I don't expect we shall meet again." He said as he began to close the door.

Before she could think better of it, she pushed against the closing door with her palm.

"Professor, I'm not sure if you are aware of it but after The Battle of Hogwarts when, well, when the whole story of your...war service... came out The Prince Family formally claimed you?"

The door swung open so suddenly that Hermione stumbled forward, finding herself nose to chest with Snape. As he drew himself up she was painfully aware of how tall he was and even all these years later what an imposing figure he cut as he glared down the length of his nose at her, lip curling.

"I'm aware," he said, his tone so frosty she expected his breath to steam.

"However, it is of little consequence they accepted a dead man when they never bothered with him alive."

"But…"

"But what Granger?"

"You could come home. Everyone knows the truth now and…" her voice trailed off as he erupted into a brittle laugh that sounded much more like the man she remembered than the velvety chuckling from her last visit.

He bent down, so his face was level with her own.

"You can't possibly believe that" he hissed between his teeth.

"As far as respectable Wizardkind is concerned I'm a murderer. No amount of tearful hand-wringing or heartfelt speeches will wash that taint from my name. There will always be suspicion, whispers, hatred. As for the DeathEaters, you were there Miss Granger, you saw their numbers. How many fell? More than fled? I betrayed them, betrayed the Dark Lord himself, and I have no desire to have my brains turned into soup like Frank and Alice by some lingering zealot that the Ministry failed to prove wore the mark."

Hermione opened to mouth to speak but could not find the words she wanted so instead found herself patting his sleeve as though the simple gesture might soothe him.

The long fingers of Snape's other hand circled her wrist and pushed her hand away from his arm, but when he spoke again, his tone  _was_  calmer.

"We both know I shall be gone before you can return with Aurors."

Hermione knew that was true and honestly, it was only pure luck she had stumbled upon him now, but there were riddles here that needed answers, and so for the first time in a long time she found herself speaking before thinking.

"I don't think a return visit will be needed, Mr Kerr, all the paperwork has been completed properly there should be no need for anyone else from...my firm, to get in touch with you. Thank you for your co-operation."

She extended her hand, fervently willing him to accept the handshake; still, he hesitated until she let her eyes meet his. She couldn't tell if he was looking into her mind or merely trying to gauge her intent but after several seconds passed he grasped her hand briefly, which she supposed was all the answer she was likely to get from this infuriatingly opaque man.

"Farewell Miss Granger" was all he said before shutting the door between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my Mash, BigFatNo, NaughtyGaymer, Karinta, Hailey, Kristina, Kvarta and all the gang who acted as my sounding board and Alpha readers. Many thanks to all those who proofread and gave notes. Thanks to Aras and Paulo for acting as Beta for these first few chapters.


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